I never failed in my attempts at beauty
because it was a question of perception,
one man's monster is another's lover.
That summer you chased me into the wilderness,
threatening to raise a mob roused by the smell
of my cursed blood, just about the only good thing,
you said, you'd done since we met. But it'd been years
since this was my home; I'd been broken
by glares of fear and disgust. A flea
could've filled the void I left in your life.
When society sneered at us, you abandoned
me in the cold, believing I was unworthy of love. Then
I was discovered by another, who is teaching me
the art of perception. His love is a blanket,
resuscitating me from the frostbite
of your heart.
What is the sum of 11 and 6:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.